


Frozen Proof

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: And their frames of mind may be different, but it’s the same thoughts flowing in their head.





	Frozen Proof

**Author's Note:**

> centuries-verse, takes place immediately after [about to bloom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961351)
> 
> pls keep bearing with me until the rust goes away

They’ve given Tatsuya back his old stall on Daiki’s right, his old number twelve. He still does his skates up right first, all the way, and then left to match; he still reaches over before the second period to touch the side of his hand against Daiki’s, sweat meeting sweat. The uniforms they wear now are different; Tatsuya’s never played for this coaching staff; half the roster’s turned over in the two and a half years he’d been in Boston before being traded back.

Most of Tatsuya’s rookies are still here, though. They’re twenty-five and getting married and buying real houses and apartments and sensible cars and not taking stupid penalties and signing contract extensions, but they’re still Tatsuya’s rookies. It’s not just a category they’re stuck to inside of Daiki’s mind; it’s a state of being they revert back to whenever they remember Tatsuya’s back.

It’s cute how they gather around Tatsuya, anxious for praise or a constructive comment, what Daiki always used to call Tatsuya's hockey words of wisdom, a phrase he can’t remember he forgot, lying in a dusty corner of his memory without occasion to use it. They are wise words, though, cutting the problem like skate blades on fresh ice, or nudging the point of praise into the net like a loose puck in practice. It’s always accurate, but not something Daiki would think to say, even when he’s tried to notice.

Tatsuya catches Daiki’s eye and grins. A kid who’s really a kid, not Tatsuya’s kid, their Swiss rookie d-man, sidles a little closer. Daiki’s pretty sure it’s not to talk to him, and when the kid glances, ever obvious, at Tatsuya, that confirms it. Daiki runs his thumb over his knee; what’s Tatsuya going to say? Something about the goal he’d scored in practice?

“You have good hands,” Tatsuya says. “Pass to me more.”

“Pass to me,” says Daiki. “I’m your captain.”

The rookie half-smiles, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to laugh, and oh, God, Daiki never remembers being that nervous even around players he’d respected. (Tatsuya would probably tell him he’s remembering wrong, but Daiki doesn’t think that’s true, and some of the other rookies are a little more confident than this one.)

“I'll set you up,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki sticks his tongue out at Tatsuya, and at this the rookie does laugh. Tatsuya smiles, and Daiki leans back in his stall. The kid does have good hands; he has to have heard that a million times from scouts and coaches and executives and whoever else. Tying it back to himself and the team, though, seems to be what the kid wants to hear, in the way he wants to hear it. Daiki runs a hand through his hair.

“How do you do that? I’ve been trying since you left, but…I don't know.”

“I’m more analytical,” says Tatsuya. “We think about the game differently.”

“Nah,” says Daiki.

They don’t. Do they? Tatsuya is more about plans and concrete thoughts and Daiki’s instinctual, but Tatsuya’s plans have a habit of falling through faster than a rotting patch of wooden floor. And their frames of mind may be different, but it’s the same thoughts flowing in their head. It has to be the same competitive drive and the same love of the game, at times engorging them into overripe fruit until they practice so long their muscles lose their voices from screaming. Isn’t that the same?

“They look up to you,” Daiki says.

“They look up to you, too, Captain,” says Tatsuya. “I’m not trying to undermine your authority—“

“I told you, the C’s yours if you want it back.”

“It’s yours,” says Tatsuya. “You can’t be so stupid as to think you haven’t earned it.”

“I’m not stupid,” says Daiki. “And I know I did. And, like, Coach knows me and I’ve been with the team for however long and all of that. But you’re not subverting anything; I still look up to you, too.”

Tatsuya bobbles the roll of tape he’s winding around his stick; the adhesive tangles and Tatsuya mouths a swear. His face is still poised and neutral, but Daiki hadn’t missed that. He’d caught Tatsuya off-guard when he hadn’t been trying to, but he’d caught himself just as much.

“You thought I didn’t?” says Daiki.

“You’re you,” says Tatsuya, flat, the dull edge of an overused skate blade.

“What does that mean?” says Daiki.

“You’re a better player than me; you were ahead of me on development. I’m only eight months older than you.”

“Yeah, but…you’re you,” says Daiki. “I told you, I tried to do what you did as a captain. I took the rookies out to eat and got to know them and tried to do that thing you do but they don’t hang on what I say the way they do with you. And even though I was your A the whole time, I wanted your approval. Still do.”

He throws a half-smile Tatsuya’s way; Tatsuya returns it. His stick’s finished and his hand is free to cover Daiki’s at the edge of the stall.

“I didn’t…”

Know? Guess? Realize? All of the above? This is like when they’d gotten together all over again but scaled on a different metric. How the fuck can Tatsuya be so observant and so oblivious? Daiki tweaks Tatsuya’s nose.

“As your captain,” he says.

Tatsuya smiles, more relaxed this time, like the last two summers when they’d gone fishing out in the middle of nowhere, high altitude mountain air and calm water and just the two of them. Tatsuya’s got to be thinking of this, too, or something close to it; he clamors to his feet and pulls his t-shirt over his head.

“Let’s get going. So we can take a nap before the game.”

Daiki squeezes his ass as Tatsuya walks by to take his stick over to the equipment guy; Tatsuya flashes a quick wink over his shoulder on his way. Fuck, is Daiki glad he’s back.


End file.
